


The Capacity To Be Terribly Happy

by Eggplantssandpeachess



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Will, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal Lecter, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggplantssandpeachess/pseuds/Eggplantssandpeachess
Summary: Hannibal and Will have discovered that their significant other have been cheating on them. While following/stalking their respective lovers they bump into one another.





	The Capacity To Be Terribly Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired while reading "Strangers on a train" by Patricia Highsmith, title taken from the book. I'm bad with summaries and tags.

 

 

‘Sweet man’, that was what Anthony called him. Yes, Will Graham truly believed such empty words for over two years. He even held it with such regard, but now there was little he believed in anymore, he was an absolute fool. 

 

  
  
Will understood that A Sweet Man didn't stalk their partner, that a Sweet Man didn't crack, pry, and gouge through their partner’s intentions, emotions and motivations without proof. A Sweet Man wouldn't drown, would never choke in their utter flood of bitter contempt.

  
  
Will Graham was not a Sweet Man.

  
  
He remembered the sick sinking feeling when Anthony uttered those words, the same damn words, where every time it had been said with honest endearment but now it was no longer the case.   
  


Anthony was a liar. 

“--Ah, Will, Will,” Anthony groaned as he writhed his slick long body beneath Will. “--Will, gentle, please,--” He pleaded without a tone of conviction. 

“-A-Anything for you--” Will whimpered against sweaty curls much like his own, coloured lighter, the feeling thinner, softer. He moved his weight off his lover’s chest and began a new stroke into the wet tightness of Anthony’s talented body. This time he was slower but deeper, a concentrated angle for the purposes of precision. 

“Oh-- Oh Will, Jesus Christ--” Anthony keened. “I--I’m going to, to--” 

They released simultaneously, and Will closed his eyes, teeth clenched in a bared snarl. Sex robbed his fervoured energy, collapsing the taught lines of his elbows, exactly the way Anthony liked him. He presumed it was Anthony’s goal in the first place. 

Will sunk lethargically atop his lover, his clammy hands sweeping gentle purchase all over Anthony’s side. 

Anthony chuckled lowly, “Go on then, get off, you beast, you,” He said in that delightful English accent Will found irresistible. Will had always thought it made Anthony sound clever with just an edge of condescending that was entirely amusing. 

 

Will smiled against his lover’s neck and reluctantly moved aside to lay beside him. “Sorry,” Said Will with the look of a reprimanded puppy.

 

“There’s nothing to apologise for my Sweet Man,” Said Anthony as he brushed away Will’s moist darkened curls.

There it was. A lie. 

 

  
  
He felt disgusted at the blatant lie. It didn’t matter how he knew, but nevertheless it was in his mind, hard like a diamond, its clarity the highest grade. Will realised he was no longer Anthony’s Sweet Man. 

  
  


 

Anthony was a liar.

Struck with the discovery Will felt as though he had somehow stumbled into another world. Beyond the garden wall, down the path that lead towards Uncanny Valley. Will saw things there, things about Anthony that confronted him violently and persistently. 

“You don’t mind I take a shower, do you?” Said Will as he smiled and began to move away. He didn't wait for an answer, he didn't hear even if Anthony gave him one.

He stepped at an easy gait towards Anthony’s ensuite bathroom before closing the door. Inside, Will turned and stared at the mirror to watch his smile melt away into the hard line of his lips. He looked neater now, neater than before, before Anthony, more refined to juxtapose Anthony’s free spirited persona;  a creative writer and poet, was Anthony's own words. Will's beard was short shaven, his hair a masculine length to show off the sharp cut of his jaw and the pale graceful column of his neck. Anthony had told him he looked strong like that, and Will believed him. 

 

 

The mirror returned an impassive image and a thought erupted. Will wanted to smash it with Anthony's face. He could picture it, it would be elegant; the sharp cracks would match the cracks beneath his own human suit that seemed to grow in light of Anthony's lie; a gruesome symmetry. He ground his teeth until he felt the raw ache in his jaw, and released a shuddering breath. Relationships were just too goddamn difficult.

 

 

He felt Anthony's emotions in equal measure to his own. They fought one another in the bone arena of his skull and Will winced at the fissures they made. 

Collateral damage, just as Will was damaged, that's what had attracted Anthony in the first place. But Will loved Anthony, loved him to his core, loved him for companionship, for the conversations, for the passion. Anthony even taught Will just how lonely being alone truly was; a lesson both heady and cruel. 

But that lie, It was _ just _ a lie and Will could not be certain of its reason. Yet why did he feel so angry? Everyone lied. But no, Will knew a lie and Will knew an innocent lie from a terrible one. What Anthony said was a lie and it was a lie to placate, to distract. And that fact only made Will more curious, more ravenous, and dangerously so. 

 

 

Will wondered who it was that had replaced him. He turned the shower off with unsteady hands and rode his wave of emotions without any guarantee in safety.

 

 

_ He wants to leave you.  _ The voice told him, urged him. Sad broken Will.  _ He’s just waiting for the right time.  _

With a towel that hung against his slender hips, Will stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. Anthony's bedroom was quiet and hollow now, the only sound coming from the steady breaths of the prone figure lying on the bed. A single lamp was on, a deep yellow, a guiding light for Will to stalk towards with silent bare-footed steps. 

 

 

He stared then, stared down at his lover. His face unnaturally placid as Anthony slept peacefully, still dirty and sticky without a care in the world. 

 

 

Arms at his side, Will's fingers twitched.  _ He will leave you. _

 

 

Will shifted closer to the side of the bed, creeping, until he loomed above the peaceful figure. Anthony was there, perfectly, half tucked into the generous covers, presenting a bare neck that was just waiting to be--  


 

A question of 'if' twirled like a flimsy ribbon, but a sinister 'when' fell like a dependable rope. 

 

 

Anthony frowned with unopened eyes when a drop of water fell unto his forehead. A mercy from Will's drenched hair.  

 

 

“Hey you, I fell asleep,” Whispered Anthony. “Come here, hmm?” He turned to his side with a rustle.

 

 

Will stepped back horrified, he looked around in silent panic and hastily kicked his legs through a pair of boxers. “--I'll take that as a compliment,” He said breathily before pulling at the lamp cord and plunging the room into darkness. 

 

 

He shifted into the bed, cooler on his side away from Anthony's heat. Will laid stiffly on his back and stared at the tall coffered ceilings as his wide eyes adjusted to the lack of light. 

Sleep had never evaded him quite so vindictively as it did that night.

.

.

.

  
  


Hannibal was absolutely certain, that his reason, something planted in the realm of rationality, drove him towards his current situation. He understood that suspicion was a powerful tool, it heightened idle senses and in light of his recent behavior it was only a matter of time before that tool was pointed back at himself. 

He had acted far too leniently around his lawful wedded wife and he knew it was reckless. A fault born of whimsy. A handful of unexplained appointments and periodical unavailability that was sure to raise Bedelia's suspicions. But nevertheless food had always served as a comfort between them, or so he hoped.

There was a perceptible change in Bedelia’s behaviour, and he knew very well when her usual patterns shifted.  They still shared meals together, home made by Hannibal of course, but gradually that routine had deteriorated. Hannibal noted the sudden late nights at her practice, and the slow and steady inclusion of a social life he had been given very little information about. 

He had no other choice but to look at her differently, more thoroughly. With prim and proper Bedelia sitting across their dining table he calculated, recalibrated. Bedelia was a sharp and observant woman, but how sharp and observant was she?

“And what is this?” She queried. 

“Veal,” He said with a smile. 

Bedelia did not smile, glancing at her plate without a hint of movement. “It’s lovely, thank you, Hannibal.” 

Perhaps Bedelia had connected his own late nights and frequent Psychiatric convention attendance to… 

...Perhaps not. 

  
  


Agent Jack Crawford had sought Bedelia for her psychological insights, a compensated privy to some of the FBI's most pressing cases. It fascinated Hannibal to see the inner workings of law enforcement, to take a peek, but his wife did not share the same mindset. Despite Hannibal's forwardness to assist, Bedelia had never felt inclined to bring her work home, she stubbornly kept them tucked away from curious eyes, and specifically his curious eyes. It was truly a shame for them to not seek his services instead.

Bedelia's newfound connection with the FBI did not settle uncomfortably for Hannibal, rather he relished in the growing excitement. The hunting horn had been blown. But he was still very careful, precautionary duties were to be done, and he decided to follow her. To watch and observe, to collect and deconstruct. It was imperative that he gather as many pieces to this new game as he could because he planned to grab it by its neck and make it his own.

When an opportunity presented itself Hannibal graciously took the offer. Bedelia had innocently informed him of some business she had to take of in New York, a guest lecture at a hospital, a new piece of real estate she was interested in buying; Hannibal did not care for her terrible lies. He exchanged his own plans to her and Bedelia seemed pleased with his busy schedule. Another lie, of course, but a much better one. 

The days leading up to the weekend had Hannibal keeping a close eye on Agent Jack Crawford as well. And when he found a sudden lack of communication between the agent and Bedelia, Hannibal was certain it was time for him to check and recheck his own contingency plans. The passports, the papers, all were up to date; he was prepared for any situation. 

How fortunate it was then, for him, and equally for her that he discovered that his dear wife was  _ not _ secretly meeting with the head of the FBI’s behavioural science unit as he had previously thought. But in an unforeseen turn of events Bedelia was in fact meeting with what appeared to be her lover. It was the kind of betrayal Hannibal was most grateful for, considering everything.  

Hannibal would have to commend her successful sidestep that lead to his small oversight. The thought made him smile with pride. He was certain that their years of marriage had made Bedelia unconsciously more vigilant, a survivor’s skill and perhaps if he so pleases, she would survive him, he could let her. 

Poor Bedelia to ignore what must have been a novel’s worth of quiet and sinister suspicion only to bare its weight within a lover’s arm.

Hannibal smirked behind his cup of coffee. Amongst levels of thoughts in his mind, running parallel and completely separated from one another, there was always one reserved for amusement. As he hid himself underneath a fedora and a pair of designer sunglasses, Hannibal sat pleasantly at a cafe across from a boutique hotel. He was certainly amused, very much so. 

_ What have you done, Bedelia? _

Hannibal wondered just how long this little escapade of her's had existed and how exactly it happened. Their marriage may not have been of the normal variety but Hannibal understood that infidelity was quite the rude gesture against the sanctity of matrimony. But then, with her attentions occupied it could be useful for his own activities. Bedelia was a smart woman and her affair seemed like her greatest idea to claim her survival; Hannibal knew she knew.. enough, but she was not so tact as to leave him; a clever decision. He was grateful to maintain his foil, and Bedelia believed herself useful. Perhaps this was to be the most beneficial path for both of them. 

Hannibal rose from his seat to fetch the newspapers that were free for the perusal of cafe patrons. He looked for the one he was most interested in reading;  _ The Tattler _ . Garbage journalism aside Hannibal enjoyed all manner of scandal especially those not appropriate for the dining table, an exposé that was more suited for the examination bench at the morgue, for instance.    
  


Hannibal reached out beside the bowl of brown sugar packets and napkins, a mindless motion that found his hand landing upon another’s. The hand beneath his was slightly smaller, a little rougher. Surprised, Hannibal looked up to see its owner, only to be met by a man whom just like him, was wearing dark shades as well.    
  


“My apologies,” Hannibal said cordially. He was about to continue when the stranger let his Ray-bans slip down the bridge of his nose, exposing the stormy blue of his eyes. 

The stranger took the paper to wave it about. “I’m guessing you don’t read this for the  _ Miracle Cancer Cure  _ headline.” 

Hannibal smiled. “Neither do you, it seems.” 

The stranger took off his shades. “I’ll let you read first if you let me sit with you?” 

Hannibal tilted his head and took off his own glasses. “Fairs, fair.” He assessed the well dressed man in the proper light of Baltimore's morning sun with a glittering stare, pleased at what he saw. 

The Stranger handed the paper over to him, and Hannibal lead him back to his table. 

The Stranger took a free chair and moved his seat to be adjacent to Hannibal’s. The action caused Hannibal to perk an elegant arched eyebrow.

The small circular table allowed little personal space, it was an intimate setting by design, but the Stranger further encroached the boundary without the common sensibility of exchanging names. These curiously delightful details did not escape Hannibal in the slightest. 

As it happens to be, Hannibal’s table was in a prime position, safely hidden behind the small fence and potted garden in the Cafe’s front patio; directly in line with the hotel’s front entrance. A discreet position to watch if one were venturing observation. 

Hannibal sat in time with the Stranger and their shoulders brushed. They both crossed their legs in mirror image and Hannibal opened the flimsy papers of  _ The Tattler _ , content to read as he had planned. Both him and the Stranger had reverted to their previously shaded eyes and Hannibal had the odd feeling he was not alone in whatever situation he had inadvertently stumbled upon.

No matter, he turned the page as a waiter came around to deliver the Stranger’s coffee; black, no sugar needed, Hannibal noted; as the unopened packets were tossed aside. 

“Another Ripper one?” The Stranger said in a sotto voice before taking a sip of his coffee. 

Hannibal did not gasp at the interruption nor was he irritated. “Yes, so it would seem.” He looked at the double page spread he held in his hands.  _ Ripper strikes again!  _ The headline said in bright red letters. Bold and underlined, unashamed of its content.  _ Sectioned pieces of a man found in the back seat of the Victim's own car!  _

  
  


“Tasteless,” Said the stranger in a growl Hannibal found charming.    
  


“Ah yes, the crime, quite frightening,” 

“No, the journalist.”   


 

“Do you have a personal issue with Ms. Lounds?”

“You don't look the type to read  _ The Tattler,”  _

“And what type would that be?” 

When the Stranger did not reply Hannibal broached. “Tell me, do you often like to proposition strangers and join their tables?”

“Do you often accept strange situations or are you just that adaptable?” 

“One would say you are deflecting when answering a question with another question.” 

“You are married,” The stranger stated.

Hannibal glanced at his ring finger, the gold band felt heavy on his skin. “Yes, and you are not.”

“Yet you sat alone,”

“I am not alone anymore.”

“That depends,” Said the stranger. “On what we are doing,” 

“And what are we doing?” 

Too enthralled as he was in this unconventional conversation Hannibal had almost abandoned his post of watching for Bedelia.  He could not determine precisely what he had engaged in, but it formed much like a delicate cocktail of predatory appraisal tantamount to thinly veiled flirtation. And Instead of savouring the unique heady flavour Hannibal had the feeling he was taking wild undignified gulps at the fleeting liqueur, yet he wanted more.. 

A blur of movement in his peripheral snapped Hannibal's attention to the front entry of the hotel across the road. There was Bedelia just as predicted, completely unaware, walking side by side with a tall willowy man. 

A shift beside him reminded Hannibal of his unexpected companion. He glanced thoughtfully at the Stranger who seemed to have gone stiff. White clenched knuckles were the only flaws he saw to the seemingly relaxed posture. Intrigued, Hannibal wanted to rip those glasses off the stranger's face just to revel in the brute hurricane of his eyes that were undoubtedly contained underneath. 

  
  


 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/ban_ban)


End file.
